


Syrup

by SadMageCentral



Series: Chronicles of Tharnia [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Alcohol, Denial of Feelings, Dialogue Heavy, Elsweyr, F/M, Innuendo, Internal Monologue, Past Relationship(s), References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadMageCentral/pseuds/SadMageCentral
Summary: The chaos of the dragons' intrusion into Elsweyr, coupled with his half-sister's recent demise and the haunting realization that he is no longer young, finally takes its toll on Imperial Battlemage Abnur Tharn. While he tries to dull the unpleasant sensation with some sugary Khajiiti wine, a well-meaning Vestige checks on him... But that might have just made things more complicated, as the Vestige - an Altmer who still remains as youthful as many, many decades ago, unlike Tharn himself - once used to be his lover.





	Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> The story contains some spoilers for the main questline of the Elsweyr Chapter.
> 
> Lavinia is the same Vestige that appears in my Alone No More fic; by now, she has been cured of her vampirism by Meridia and begun a committed relationship with Mel Adrys. Mel does not actually make an appearance in the Elsweyr chapter (pity!), but I still reference him as showing up to support Lavinia because that's what boyfriends (should) do.

With a curl of his lips and a stifled rasp, just at the root of his tongue, as if a torchbug had flown up his throat, Abnur Tharn downs the last of the sticky dregs in his goblet and sets it down next to the bottle, squinting at at the yellowish glass in disapproval. Damn, the Khajiit stuff sugar in everything, don’t they? How much of this glorified syrup does he have to force down his throat before all these sharp edges that have been prodding at him all day - the shrill echoes of his half-sister’s ghost throwing taunts at him; the jagged shadows of the winged beast he has unwittingly unleashed on Elsweyr, the stinging blares of his misfiring spells - finally begin to turn soft and fuzzy and..  bearable?

He reaches for a refill, but before he can grasp the bottle, a translucent green chain of magic wraps around its neck and pulls it away from him. He looks up to meet a pair of deep, thoughtful dark-gold eyes, set on an angular face that glows with a paler, more pastel shade of the same metal. A nice change from the clammy grey and bruised purple and ever-hungry, burning red he has gotten used to seeing during their adventures in the company of the lumbering Nord and mopey Redguard. Mortality does become her - not that it is relevant to anything.

‘Ah. Vestige’.

He does not call her Lavinia - not like he used to. In the days long gone; before she started dabbling in Necromancy and got herself turned into a vampire; before Varen’s ill-fared little expedition, and the Three-Banner War, and… everything. Before the reflection that he knows he will see in the bottle glass, should he break eye contact and glance down, replaced the one that would smirk back at him from the mirror. The reflection of a younger face; less lined; with keener, clearer eyes - and framed by better hair.

'I… I was concerned for you, Abnur’.

She, on the other hand, does not hesitate with first names - like nothing changed. Like they are still a couple of aspiring Imperial mages - well, an Imperial and an Altmer adopted by Imperials, but the distinction scarcely mattered back then. Both young, both hungry for knowledge. Excited to unravel the mysteries of the arcane. And also each other’s togas - in every alcove, under every stairwell, on every convenient pile of cushions. 

 

Abnur. Each of these two short syllables is loaded heavier than the enormous orbs of the twin moons that they were supposed to somehow keep from eclipsing (and failed - through his ineptitude). Because whenever they roll off her tongue, he remembers the multitude of other intonations with which she used to say them. Not so much say as gasp, oftentimes. Into the crook of his neck, against his flushed cheek, somewhere above his head while he was… Ah, so the bloody Khajiiti syrup did make him drunk, after all.

The point is - he does not quite like it when she calls him Abnur… And yet he cannot bring himself to correct her, not like he does with Caldwell or any of those other kettleheads, figurative and literal.

'It is not like you to wallow in your mistakes,’ she goes on, and he is yanked out of a half-hazy vision of her embrace back to the present. To the sundrenched courtyard of the Rimmen Palace, where his half-sister’s shadow stretched like a dagger wound across the ground not that long ago. If there are dark dealings somewhere in Tamriel, you can’t swing an Alfiq by the tail without hitting a Tharn. He heard that quip in the market square a few days back - and by the gods, whichever loiterer that purred it was right.

'Oh, and what makes you think you are insightful enough to judge what is like me, and what is not?’ he hears himself say. 'I am not the person you used to know; damn it, I am not even the person I used to know. I have wasted away as a battlemage, a diplomat, a man. And because of this, we have been brought to this point. Besieged by bloody dragons and their human lackeys, when in my younger day, I would have just… rolled them all up into a ball and tossed them into lava in Oblivion somewhere!’

Another flash of greenish magical energy. This time, the chains are thicker, sturdier; Lavinia uses them to snatch up a chair for herself from the other side of the courtyard and pull it up next to his.

Oh great. She is setting the stage for a heart-to-heart. Who does he think she is, that Dunmer that crops up from time to time to fight beside her and gaze at her with dopey lovestruck eyes? What was his name, Mel something… The vampire hunter she met in Greenshade somewhere, when she was still cursed by Molag Bal, and managed to convince that not all vampires are inherently evil, through her patience, and candour, and…

No, no, he does not do sentimentality. He does not do syrup - unless it comes in form of awful wine, apparently.

'Humans fade far too soon, it is true,’ she says, and a deep darkness wells up within her eyes, while his own irritation gives way… Not to pity, exactly; as he keeps reminding himself, he is above syrup such as this, even when he is half-drunk. But to… something.

It has been years, decades since she watched first her adopted parents, then siblings succumb to old age, one by one; since she decided she had had enough and turned to the dark arts to resurrect them; since she joined the Worm Cult out of desperation and then realized she had not the heart for following Mannimarco’s orders and wanted out, only to be sacrificed to Molag Bal and emerge by Varen’s side as a vampire. And yet, it all clearly still haunts her. Perhaps he should have tried harder to mock her for it, like he did Sai-Sahan - then the present awkwardness would have been avoided.

’…But that is what makes your people’s deeds doubly amazing. In so little time - not even two hundred years - you have accomplished so much. You have risen to the heights of magic; have pulled the strings behind empires; have lived such a full life…’

Her eyes twinkle mischievously, and he is horrified by how close he is to becoming syrup himself.

'What was it… Seven wives, sixteen children?’ she teases. 'And that is just the ones that the law officially recognizes! You have left behind a legacy - and you will still add to it today!’

He swallows, waits for a second or two for his breath to settle - and, at last, manages a smirk that is almost like his younger self’s. He knows - he has double-checked his reflection in the bottle glass.

'Your perception of humankind is far too lofty, Vestige. I am obviously an outlier’.

'And that is the smug bastard I know!’ she beams, before leaning in to plant a swift kiss on his cheek and getting up.

'Please take care of yourself. We march on the Moon Gate soon’.

'I will be sober; Tharn’s word of honour,’ he calls after her.

She acknowledges him with a wave and strides off, tall, slender, untouched by the years just as her enchanted white robes are always untouched by the gore of battle. Soon, she disappears behind one of those intricate statues of Khajiiti warriors frozen mid-pounce.

She’s in a hurry to meet up with Mel, no doubt; to hear his report on dispatching the lurking necromancers. And to share a kiss with him, long and steady, a reassurance of commitment rather than a hurried indulgence or… or whatever this just was.

As soon as she is out of sight, Abnur lifts his hand to his face to rest his fingertips where her lips brushed against his skin.

Bloody syrup.


End file.
